


Never Had The Slightest Interest In Pretty Young Men

by Quanna



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quanna/pseuds/Quanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>also titled "five times Clara Oswald came out", or "the one where Clara is very, very queer." </p><p>takes place throughout s8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jenny

**Author's Note:**

> Clara Oswald is quite clearly not straight, and nobody can convince me otherwise. This is still very much a work in progress, and has been since August last year. I've just finally convinced myself to post more than the first chapter, the original publication of which you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3361604). It's pretty much the same text, bar some minor additions and changes. 
> 
> This whole fic is a slight au in the sense that it was written before most of s8 came out (hehe), and therefore largely based on headcanons, predictions and hopes I had, rather than the actual material. I'll put the appropriate information and trigger warnings in the notes before each chapter. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: implied/referenced character death (Clara's mother and Eleven) and 'mild' internalised homophobia. Clara's coming out is received positively and respectfully.

She falls face forward on the bed, determined to block everything out until a time when she can deal with it on her own terms. It seems his rules last only as long as his body, and promises reinvent themselves along with his face.

There’s a quiet knock at the door, and then the creaking of the wooden floor as Jenny enters with a silver tea tray. She manages to push herself back into an uncomfortable sitting position, accepting a cup of tea. It scalds her hands as she links her fingers around it, but she ignores it.

“He’ll come back for you, he always does,” Jenny tries, giving her an encouraging smile. “He likes you.”

And there it is again; the subject they just can’t seem to avoid. Months of misassumptions, but he has to force it center-stage as dramatically as possible; switching masks mid-act. She’s left waiting in the wings, knowing she’s never dealt well with grief but forced to confront it anyway.

“Really not in love with him,” she blurts out, lips trembling against the rim of her cup. “I care about him very deeply, but it’s not like that. He’s too distracted, and I’m-” She falters, tangled in treacherous words. A perverse quirk of human nature; she still can’t confront this even though she nearly suffocated today.

“I just meant that he’s always come back before.” Jenny says gently, noticing her discomfort. “Didn’t mean to imply anything inappropriate.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

She's had many dreams about falling and shattering into a million pieces, but none made her feel as lost as this. "When I was fifteen, I lost the most important person in my life. Two weeks later, my best friend said she liked me and kissed me in the school library. It was so confusing we never talked about it again. Today-" she admits shakily, her accent bleeding into the words: "it suddenly matters I never told her I liked her, too.”

In hindsight, it’s ridiculously obvious: blaming the latter on the former, passing it off as a phase. "What I said this morning about not having an interest in men- I think I meant it literally."

Jenny looks at her, and it’s like reading a novel and latching on to something implied between the lines, irrevocably placing the protagonist in a different light. A brilliant moment of understanding; both of them aware of the parallels between them; considered wise beyond their standing but shunned for what they stand for.

She’s scared she’s somehow done this wrong, but then her friend is hugging her. Her mind is reeling, and she’s terrified because she’s finally figured this out, finally has the much-needed tools to analyse and annotate. 

“You are so brave,” Jenny mutters into her shoulder. (Willing it to be the first response she’s heard).  
“Doesn’t feel that way.” (It isn’t, and that makes it matter all the more).

Jenny lets go, wiping at her eyes. “It will, one day.”

***

_“I’m Nina, I’m new, and I think you’re funny.”  
-“I’m Clara, and I don’t think I’m funny.”_

***

 

Later, he apologises, hinting this is something about herself she needs to confront: he’s not her boyfriend.

She never thought he was, simply made one up because of reasons she’s only just beginning to understand. 

He gives her a sad smile, and says it isn’t her who’s wrong.

 

They don’t mention it again.


	2. Danny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, Clara and Danny are 'just' very very good friends. It makes everything a whole lot less creepy.
> 
> For those of you not in the know, Brick Lane bagels is a Thing one does as a (student) resident of London's East End. Open 24/7, the white bagel shop is the place to get cheap comfort food after a breakup, night out, bad exam results or when you simply can't be arsed to cook. I live about 10 minutes from Brick Lane on foot, and because it's hilarious to me to imagine Danny and Clara going for bagels at 3am on a school night, I headcanoned Danny does, too. 
> 
> trigger warnings for: tipsy makeouts, mention of painkillers.

Just in case she isn’t convinced, tipsy make-outs with her male friend and colleague are in fact, quite awful.

She’s pulling her shirt back on when he enters, plonking down a glass of water and some aspirin on the bedside table. 

“If we can just agree to not do this again, ever, I’ll get my stuff and leave,” she mutters before he can say anything, gratefully gulping down the painkillers and the water.  
“It was pretty bad,” he agrees miserably from the doorway. “No offence.”  
“trust me, none taken.”  
“good.”

There’s an awkward silence in which they eye each other, both start to say something and then promptly look away, the East London skyline beyond the window suddenly fascinating to both of them. Eventually, she gathers her remaining things and sits down to tie her shoes. He hovers in the doorway, burying his face in his hands.

“Clara?”  
“Hm?”  
He sighs angrily, words not his strong point. “This is really fucked.”  
“I thought we had established that.”  
“No. Yes-” he thumps the door frame in frustration, startling her. “Sorry. I’m-I’ve got to tell you something.”  
Great. He folds his arms, body trembling. He’s never visibly nervous.  
“I’m not sure whether it’s going to make this better or worse but-“, he stops, clearly conflicted. “I should probably have told you before, but it’s a bit of a, sensitive issue,” he laughs nervously, “I don’t want you to think I kept it from you-”  
She holds up a hand. “Take a breath, start again.” Maths teachers.  
He does, shifting his feet. “There’s this thing-” he sighs, then tells the ceiling just above her: “I’m pretty sure I’m…not straight.”  
She drops her shoe and stares at him. He looks utterly defeated. “Quite gay, actually.”

It’s like the universe is actively mocking her.  
“I’m sorry. Bad timing-”

She can’t help it; she starts laughing. She feels terrible for it but she couldn’t have come up with this if she’d tried. Of course he is. It’s ridiculous and just a tiny bit tragic; oh so fitting for the both of them.  
“Stop it! It’s not funny!”  
She swallows the last of her slightly hysteric giggles, taking a breath and plunging in at the deep end. “Me too.”  
“What?”  
This is so much easier when someone else bites the bullet for you. “Pretty sure I’m not straight, either.”

It’s his turn to stare. He looks her up and down, expecting her to say something. “You’re not joking, are you?” he asks when she doesn’t.  
“No. Why would I do that?”  
“It’s just- sometimes I can’t tell, with you.”  
“Danny,” she takes a step towards him, stands on her toes and looks him in the eye. “I’m not joking.”  
“Right. So this-”  
“Was fun and consensual, but not up for repeat.”  
“Right.”  
“Right.”

She grins, he grins back, and then they’re both laughing so hard he tries to shush them for fear of waking up the neighbours. It doesn’t work, and they end up on the bed cackling like children; his face buried in a pillow and her head resting against the wall, legs across the bed. It’s not okay, not in the least, but they’ll talk about it when they’re properly sober.

“Friends?” she asks, smiling.  
He rolls over, hands on his stomach. “Just friends.” Then still grinning, adds: “Let’s go for bagels.”  
“That’s how you want to fix this?” she giggles, “with sad food?”  
“Tried and tested method. Nothing beats Brick Lane bagels.”  
“We’re hopeless,” she smiles down at him. “I’ll get my jacket.”

 

At least the whole thing didn’t happen aboard the Tardis, she thinks; as they walk down the street, arm in arm. Small mercies.

***

_“Will you be my best friend?”  
“Okay. Will you be mine? (I’ve never had a best friend).”_


	3. Kate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aromantic asexual Kate Stewart is life.

“You actually live in the Tower of London?” Clara asks.  
“On weekdays, yes,” Kate replies. Makes commuting much easier.” She unlocks the door with a swipe of her finger, dropping her coat on the stairs as she leads the way to the kitchen. “Tea?”  
“Yes please.”

It’s a strangely old-fashioned house; all thick carpets, neat tiling and dark wooden surfaces. A small living room sits to the left of the entrance, bookshelves filled with science lining the walls. The only personal touch is a yellowed picture of a young child in the hallway, incongruous with its surroundings.

Kate is already unpacking some of her equipment on the table underneath the window. She holds up a filter against the light, tapping it lightly and laying it back down. “No idea if any of this will actually work, but since that thing set the labs on fire, we’ll have to make due.”  
“yeah, sorry about that.”  
“I’m sure it will turn out to all be the Doctor’s fault.” She pulls a face, gesturing to the counter. “Can you keep an eye on the kettle?”  
“Yes ma’am.”  
Kate rolls her eyes and Clara grins, crossing over just as the kettle clicks. There’s another picture blu tacked to the fridge. Two people smile out of the photograph, wearing Christmas jumpers with arms wrapped around each other.

“My son,” Kate explains, glancing up. “And his partner. Well, ex-partner, as of last Tuesday.”  
Clara makes a sympathetic noise, pouring milk into the mugs and carrying them over. “What’s his name?”  
“Gordon. He’s about your age.” She rummages through her bag, triumphantly producing a funny-looking usb drive. “I had him in my teens. His father – my best friend- wanted to get married, but I realised I’d rather devote my life to scientific research.” She taps a few keys on her laptop and plugs in the device. “We split up agreeably two years later, and I’ve been happily single ever since.”

Clara smiles into her mug. “I thought for a while I was in love with my friend, too.”  
“I did love him," Kate laughs. "But I don’t think I was ever in love with him. It just took me a while to figure out I’m not really one for relationships.” She takes a sip of her tea and adds with a mischievous grin: “with men, women or anyone else. I did try. Can you pass me the Doctor’s notes?”

Slightly struck, Clara wordlessly fishes the paper filled with impatient scribbles from her bag. Her idolisation of Kate Stewart has just accelerated several gears, and she wonders if this is how her students feel when they shyly tell her she is the best teacher in the world.

“It’s hard though, isn’t it? Figuring out what you are,” she manages, trying for smooth and ending up with angsty instead.  
“Oh yes, terrifyingly so,” Kate answers unfazed, frowning over the Doctor’s ironically incomprehensible writing. “But I wouldn’t call myself a scientist if I didn’t pursue something relentlessly until I have an answer.” She puts the paper down and meets Clara’s eyes. “anything you want to talk about?”  
Clara opens her mouth to say affirm that yes, now they’re mentioning it-

-at that moment the Doctor pokes his head through the door, ash streaks on his face and hair slightly singed from an earlier explosion.   
“You two! Have you come up with a plan yet? It’s almost eaten through the steel bulkheads.” He doesn’t quite manage to keep the excitement from his voice.

“How about a cup of tea sometime when we’re not fighting an angry semi-corporeal life form?” Kate sighs, handing the Doctor her usb-drive. He waggles his eyebrows, sensing he’s perhaps intruded on something important.  
“I’d like that,” Clara smiles.

Deciding it’s not worth presently investigating, the Doctor pockets the device, and gestures for them to follow him.

***  
 _“if you fancied girls, would you ever tell your parents?”_  
“No, they’d hate me. And I don’t fancy girls.”   
***


End file.
